


it hung heavy in the tree

by objectlesson



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Banter, Drunk Sex, First Time, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:54:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27634396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: “I just mean your—uh—princely decorumis not all itcanbe right now. It’s a little wine-drowned. Wine drunk. Wine,” Merlin tries, the words sticking in his throat. His mouth is dry; it does that when Arthur arches his back like he’s doing now, stretching himself like a fucking lion across the bed, all royal and beautiful.“Merlin,” he sighs, waving a hand messily in the air beside him before letting it drop heavily to the mattress. “Kiss my ass.”And Merlin is really,reallynot sure what comes over him, but he. Hedoes.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 325





	it hung heavy in the tree

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this all because of Arthur's beautiful fat, holy-tonk badonkadonk. How could that thing exist without gratuitous rimming porn??? That's it. That's the inspo.

Arthur is _already_ shirtless in bed, and that’s perhaps why things go so sideways, so fast. There’s also all the wine. The dizziness. The way Merlin is reckless and loose-jointed and exhausted beyond reason with all the things that accompany a party that’s been going on well into the night without reprieve. 

His eyes stick and wander too much as he helps Arthur from his tunic, and pushes him into his turned down sheets. “There,” he says. “You can bathe in the morning.” 

“Merlin,” he slurs, shutting his eyes and shoving his boot into Merlin’s face so that he might tug it off. “It already _is_ morning.” 

Merlin’s gaze skitters to the window, and he realizes Arthur’s quite right. It’s dawn-grey outside, pale tendrils of it prying their way through the heavy curtains as Merlin stumbles to shut them after successfully yanking Arthur’s boots off, fingers dusty from the bottoms of them. He’s too clumsy and drunk to properly tie the drapes, so instead all he manages to do is shake them about uselessly before he gives up. The feast is _still_ going on in the banquet hall downstairs, laughter and raucous song filtering up through the night, audible even through the shut window.

When he turns back to Arthur, he has a hand spread wide and low on his stomach, and normally Merlin would purse his lips and tear his gaze away from such a thing, but he can’t muster the energy, right now. So instead he stares, wobbling, blinking, knowing Arthur’s skin is not yet his to touch but maybe one day it might be, and so perhaps it’s not so terrible a sin to imagine its smoothness. 

He must stand there for a good long while, because eventually Arthur grimaces, cracking a single eye open to peer at him. “What _are_ you waiting for?” he asks. 

“What?” Merlin says, because he’s quite forgotten what needs to be done. 

“God. You really are terribly useless,” Arthur grumbles, but he says it with fondness, rolling over onto his stomach to gesture vaguely to the bedside. “The candles are all still burning. My clothes need to be set out for tomorrow—and—and there’s something else, m’sure. But it’t not _my_ job to remember, you’re the servant.” 

Merlin snuffs the candles, gaze tripping over the curves of Arthur’s spine, where there’s a faint sheen of perspiration. _I’m just as drunk as you are,_ he wants to remind him, but instead what comes out is, “maybe…maybe you’re not in the _best_ state of mind to be making orders.” 

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” Arthur tries to snap, voice muffled with his pillow. He attempts to roll over but all he ends up doing is swaying his hips back and forth a bit uselessly, and Merlin chews the inside of his cheek until it tastes raw, eyes burning. It’s hard enough to deal with Arthur when he’s in his right mind, so he’s positively _lethal_ like this, all broken apart and lazy and imperfect, guard lowered too much for any of his usual barbs to _really_ come out with the proper amount of poison. And teasing just feels like _flirting_ when any of Arthur’s angles are dulled, or softened. “M’a _prince_ I can make orders whenever I please.” 

“I just mean your—uh— _princely decorum_ is not all it _can_ be right now. It’s a little wine-drowned. Wine drunk. Wine,” Merlin tries, the words sticking in his throat. His mouth is dry; it does that when Arthur arches his back like he’s doing now, stretching himself like a fucking lion across the bed, all royal and beautiful. 

“Merlin,” he sighs, waving a hand messily in the air beside him before letting it drop heavily to the mattress. “Kiss my ass.” 

And Merlin is really, _really_ not sure what comes over him, but he. He _does._ Rolls his eyes and crumbles to one knee beside the bed and makes a fist in Arthur’s waistband before rucking it down to expose an inch or so of pale skin, and pressing his mouth there. He does it roughly, with the promise of teeth behind his lips, because in the moment that feels like something which might save him, something which might prove this is a joke. Just another jab, just another gambit in their endless play of giving one another a hard time. But then there’s salt and softness beneath his lips and Arthur is gasping and there’s muscle flickering beneath the pressure of his own hand, which has _somehow_ come to rest over the plump, delectable, _ever-troubling_ curve of Arthur’s ass. The same curve, but opposite cheek, of the one Merlin is currently kissing. He panics, and tries to pull away. 

He does not make it very far, though, because Arthur finally recalls how to move and his hand shoots back lightning quick to make a fist in Merlin’s hair. “What the _fuck_ was that?” he asks, tugging him closer so he stumbles in on his knees, body pressed to the bed. His scalp stings and so does his chapped mouth, and his cock _should_ not stir in his trousers but he is perhaps a simpler creature than his destiny proclaims, so it does.

Merlin winces. “You told me—“

“Yeah, but you weren't supposed to…you were…” Arthur trails off, fingers thoughtfully flexing against Merlin’s scalp, refusing to let go. “It wasn’t _even_ my ass proper, it was like. My lower back. Truly, you can’t even get the simplest order right,” he eventually says, and Merlin’s heart begins to pound in his chest because Arthur isn’t _angry,_ not really, he’s—teasing. But of course, the lazy, clumsy version of it. The version that feels like flirting. 

Merlin tries not to hope or get ahead of himself regarding Arthur Pendragon, but it’s difficult _not_ to, when he’s being held over the bed, told he doesn’t even understand basic anatomy. He forces his breath to come out slow and hot, instead of frantic panting. “I apologize, sire,” he says, with enough of of a lilt there’s still plausible deniability if Arthur changes his mind about this and shoves him off. “Show me _where,_ exactly, I was, um. Supposed to kiss?” 

Arthur is the one panting now, fingers twitching, hair sweat-sticky on his brow as he gazes down at Merlin in a confused haze, like he _really_ cannot believe he’d willingly do something so humiliating as _offer_ to kiss his ass with _precision._ Arthur does things like this sometimes: gets so wrapped up in the act of humiliating Merlin he pushes it too far, wades too deeply into the current he can’t wrench himself back out again, until he’s gone and humiliated _himself,_ too. Merlin finds it impossibly charming—it’s how he _wins_ their little squabbles sometimes, how he outsmarts his master. Arthur never sees it coming, he hasn’t before and he certainly can’t now, because there’s no way in _hell_ he would consider Merlin’s mouth on _his_ ass cheek a win for Merlin. So, perhaps that’s why he continues on. 

“My _ass,_ are you deaf?” he says petulantly, finally obliterating the space between them to drag Merlin in by his hair, and grind his face directly into the pert, muscular swell of flesh. 

“This isn’t your ass, it’s your trousers,” Merlin sputters, feeling positively _mad_ with delirium as he reaches up and undoes Arthur’s trouser laces with tremulous fingers. Then, he rolls his waistband down his thighs, and instead of finally realizing what he’s up to and kicking him in the chest and insulting him for taking his servitude duties _far_ too seriously, Arthur lets go of his hair to help. 

The next few moments pass in odd, technicolor slow motion, partially because Merlin feels like his arousal and disbelief have sobered him up, and he’s _very suddenly_ phasing back into a reality where Arthur is about to be naked, and he, on his knees at the side of the bed. The mere thought makes his mouth flood, his hands tremble. Arthur’s skin here is paler then the rest of him. Paler and smoother, the blonde hair dusting his thighs fine like cornsilk, or sunlit morning dew. Something delicate and too vulnerable to witness. Merlin can feel a wide, dazed, awed, smile spreading over his own face like the dawn as it cracks over the horizon, and he should be embarassed but he’s too elated. He can smell skin and musk and as Arthur settles back onto the bed fully naked, he catches a glimpse of his cock flagging against his stomach, red-crowned and half-hard and the most beautiful thing Merlin has ever had the pleasure to behold. 

Well, perhaps _second_ most beautiful thing. Because there—there it is. His perfect ass. Entirely and improbably flawless and delicious and miraculous, flexing as Arthur hides his face in the covers. “Well,” he says, reaching back and palming himself, making the white-gold of his flesh undulate mouth-wateringly. “Get on with it.” 

Merlin swallows, canting up to brace one knee on the bed so that he can at least steady himself while he does this extremely unsteadying thing. Then, he takes a deep breath, bends his head, and very softly, gently, chastely kisses Arthur where where the hard little nub of his tailbone is, at the very top of his ass crack. Merlin keeps his eyes open and his mouth closed, at first. But Arthur does not throw him off or yell at him or have any sort of visible crisis, so, he wavers there, eyes flickering up and down his back, studying the way his breath visibly catches, the way his body quakes, but does not bolt. 

Encouraged, Merlin presses his tongue out, just a bit. 

Arthur melts, then shudders. “Fuck,” he might say. It’s hard to know because he also shoves his head under his own pillow. It’s not “no” though, and that is really all Merlin needs to carry on with enthusiasm, his stomach knotting and dropping, blood rushing in his ears at this positively astounding turn of events.

Arthur’s skin tastes like salt and iron and the spices in mulled wine. Like the clean sweat of a man who has been drinking all night in a hot room in tight clothes, and Merlin is dizzy with longing as he spreads his lips over the same place over and over again, swirling his tongue, gripping taut, smooth flesh with greedy palms. Merlin does not make the _conscious_ decision to take what he wants, but in seconds he’s too overwhelmed with the pure rage of desire to talk himself out of it, so he thumbs Arthur apart and licks his way lower, moaning involuntarily at the smell of musk and darkness. Before he even realizes what he’s doing, he sloppily licks Arthur’s hole, tongue lashing over the tight, sweet, furled muscle. 

Instantly, Arthur yelps, tensing and bucking. He might even try to pull away but Merlin is holding him fast, perhaps with the terrifying strength of unintentional magic in his grip. He’s not sure. He cannot think, or breathe, or control himself: all he can do is gasp and suck and drool. Arthur trembles and relents underneath him after a few seconds, and _then_ he’s pushing back into the hungry slickness of Merlin’s mouth, gasping audibly as he grinds against the mattress, desperate and needy. “Ah,” he bites out, the muscles of his ass jumping beneath the fierce pressure of Marlin’s palms. “Are you—you don’t _have_ to, Merlin, I’d never actually—”

Merlin pulls away with a lewd sound to promise him, “No, no. I want to. I want to,” before ducking back in, jaw already spit-slick and aching in the best possible way. 

Arthur collapses into a fit of helpless, hiccuping laughter that sound suspiciously close to sobs. “Of course you do. You— _fuck._ You’re mad.” 

And yes, maybe he is, but he can’t possibly worry about such things when he’s also getting _exactly_ what he wants. Not just any half-baked, pitiful, breadcrumb of attention from Arthur but the pinnacle of his lengthy list of filthy fantasies of him. There are many things he wants, many things he’d settle for, many things he’d wait long, patient years to even catch a glimpse of, but this— Arthur opening around his tongue, letting him fuck up inside, soft and clutching as he moans and cries out into his pillows? This is the most precious thing he could wish for. This is his dream of dreams. “I’ve thought of it before,” he admits in a rasp as he pulls away to thumb over the rim of muscle, gasping with a swollen mouth. “When I help you mount your horse. When you complain about the saddle chafing. When you bathe. When you wear—well. Anything basically. I think of this.” 

And that most _definitely_ sounds like a sob. “I didn’t know people—I didn’t know _anyone_ thought of this. I’ve certainly never thought of it,” Arthur bites out, lifting his lips just enough to force a hand under himself so that he can curl it around his cock. Merlin briefly wishes _he_ was the one doing that, touching him like that, but at the same time his hands are quite occupied with the task of keeping Arthur’s plump, strong cheeks parted enough to fit his face between, so. He supposes he can let it go and save it for next time. If there is a next time, as he so profoundly hopes. 

“This is why you need me around,” he pants before licking up and down Arthur’s furred crack, wet and light enough Arthur curses, shoving back into Merlin’s face, silently begging for more. “I’m innovative. Occasionally clever.” 

“Absolutely filthy,” Arthur corrects. “But also, yes, maybe a tiny bit brilliant too. Also please— _please_ don’t stop, god, or I _will_ throttle you for insubordination.” 

Merlin is smiling as he kisses his way back to Arthur’s hole, rubbing his lips against it before driving his tongue into the core of him, loving the sound he makes at the feeling, the way the muscles framing his spine flicker and jump. “It feels good?” he asks, pulling back again just to watch Arthur groan and slam a open palm into the headboard in frustration. 

He pets his fingers over the fluttering ring of muscle as Arthur manages a ripped, reluctant sounding: “Yes. Very good. Impossibly good.” 

It’s not impossible though—Merlin wants to tell him it’s _so_ possible, there are so many possibilities, he could make Arthur feel _so_ good, over and over again, as many times as he wanted any day, _every_ day. _We don’t have to pretend to hate each other, you know. You could let me touch you, instead. You could let yourself touch me without making sure it hurt. There is a future for both of us, where the world is different and good, and that goodness must start somewhere. Let it begin here._ It’s too much to confess, though, as the sun rises and golden light filters into Arthur’s room and spills in a lovely shaft across the sprawl of his back as he bends it and begs. Merlin would rather taste than talk, anyway, so instead of saying anything true he licks back to Arthur’s hole, flicking his tongue back and forth and pushing deep and deep and deeper until finally Arthur cries out, and begins to spasm under Merlin’s tongue like a heart muscle in death throes. 

As he lies there limp and panting, and it does not take much for Arthur to finish behind him. He loosens the laces of his trousers and shoves a hand nside to touch himself, sucking in desperate, hungry pulses at Arthur’s still-twitching hole until he spills over his fist, hot and sticky. It is the sort of bone-deep orgasm he will probably feel guilty about later, the sort that leaves his breath staggering, his vision eclipsed in blizzard white, his heart in painful, hopeful tatters. 

Because as much as he wants there to _be_ a next time, a new future—there’s only so much he can do to tamper with destiny. He tries to quell the still flickering swell of longing in his chest, and catch his breath, without catching expectations alongside it. 

When he collapses onto the bed beside Arthur, though, he does not shove him out and tell him to clean up. Instead he hums lightly, and hooks a heavy, boneless arm around Merlin’s narrow hips. It stops Merlin’s heart right in his chest. 

“You know,” Arthur says after a long tense moment, breath wine-sweet and slurring. “I hadn’t thought about _that,_ necessarily. But I’d thought about this,” he murmurs, spreading his fingers wide and smoothing a palm up Merlin’s stomach to his bony sternum, where he stays. 

Merlin cannot help but sputter in sudden, giddy laughter. “What, _cuddling_ me?” he asks, incredulous. 

He feels Arthur frown against the back of his shoulder, so he’s ready for it when he pinches his nipple punishingly, manages to bat his hand away before he does any real damage. “ _No,_ not—just. I don’t know. You. You on your knees. Or in my bed, I guess.” 

Merlin grows very quiet, moved in spite of himself. He never gave Arthur enough credit to assume he might have been anything other that _completely_ ignorant to what would inevitably happen between them. Even though Arthur was constantly touching him, constantly seeking his approval and keeping him around as a close advisor under the guise of him being his servant. Even though Merlin _knew_ what they future held—what they would be together—he assumed it was his knowledge to bear along indefinitely, until Arthur eventually caught up. The realization he was wrong needles into his gut and clutches at him. To think Arthur might have been _aware,_ all this time, in his infuriating Arthur way—it’s impossible. But then, he reminds himself, it’s _so_ possible. The world is one full of possibilities, even if the future was already written. There were one hundred different tiny deltas and deer-paths he could follow to the same vast stream and that is oddly humbling. He covers Arthur’s hand with his own, thumbing gently over his knuckles. “I’m your servant,” he reminds him. “You could have ordered me to—”

“Yes, of course I could have, but _thats_ not what I wanted,” Arthur interrupts. “I wanted—well. You to want it. It had to be something _you_ wanted enough to take,” he murmurs, settling closer. “I certainly wasn’t expecting you to go about it in _this_ particular way, but I can’t say I’m disappointed,” he grumbles, opening his mouth along Merlin’s spine to bite him there, teeth scraping. 

It hurts, and Merlin winces, but mostly, he smiles, heart opening up like the first bud of spring in the first light of morning. He closes his eyes, and settles into the solidity of Arthur’s chest. “Can’t say I am, either.” 


End file.
